


The Maestro Incident

by Plenoptic



Series: The Indecent Reign of Maestro da Vinci [6]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, The Ezio Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, And I Wrote the Thing, Blowjobs, I Was So Startled When Volpe Used the C Word That I Screamed, M/M, Machiavelli being who he is as a person, Pining, Praise Kink, consensual voyeurism, erotic sketching, not a threesome but also not not a threesome, romantic sex, whoops facial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22804645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: Leonardo's latest artistic fixation requires new subjects that meet very specific criteria, so he calls in a favor, and Machiavelli is absolutely, definitely, 100% not up to something.
Relationships: Niccolò Machiavelli/La Volpe, Niccolò Machiavelli/La Volpe/Leonardo da Vinci
Series: The Indecent Reign of Maestro da Vinci [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/199970
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	The Maestro Incident

They owed Leonardo, was the thing—gripe though he did about the inventor’s sudden intervention into their personal lives, Niccolò couldn’t deny that the sex had been fantastic. Astounding, even. Which was nice in and of itself, to have new and thrilling sex with a man to whom he was desperately attracted, a man he loved, but there was also no denying that he and Gilberto were closer now than they’d been before. And before, Niccolò wouldn’t have thought that possible, but during quiet evenings and some lazy mornings in bed, he and Gilberto talked about what had changed between them—how intense and deep and _trusting_ their bond had become.

What Niccolò felt, he realized, was liberated—because for the first time in his life he had been intensely honest about what he wanted, had even begged for it, and Volpe hadn’t seen those desires as repulsive or strange. He had even found them beautiful, had even _shared_ them. Lying awake at night and watching Gilberto sleep, Niccolò marveled at the wonder of being loved for—not in spite of—the full scope of his irrepressible humanness.

And Leonardo's request, on its surface, was so simple, and where else was he going to find the right subjects? He had two separate sodomy charges dogging his heels, and didn't fancy a third, and he didn't trust his usual circle of subjects to be discreet. Not with this. But the master of thieves and a Signori-by-day-assassin-by-night juggernaut politico excelled at keeping their mouths shut when it mattered. And, yes—they also owed him one.

* * *

“How do you want us?”

Leonardo da Vinci glanced up from his sketchbook, which he was covering in long strokes of charcoal to warm his hands. “I want you no particular way. Do what is natural.”

La Volpe and Niccolò Machiavelli shared a look. They were seated on the bed, still clothed, their knees just touching; Leonardo sat some distance away, perched on a stool with his book open in his lap.

“Do you want us to go slower than usual? Give you time to—”

Leonardo waved a hand, his brow creased with impatience. “No. Do what you normally do when you aren’t watched. If you perform, there’s no point.”

Volpe looked at his lover and shrugged. Niccolò swallowed, fiddled with the lapel of his coat.

“So, just—”

“Start. Whenever,” Leonardo said, without looking up again from his warm-up strokes.

It was a side of Leonardo that Machiavelli had never quite seen before—not the inventor, not the engineer, not the mathematician, but the artist, a man obsessed with the human form, with all of its permutations, both twisted and beautiful (and especially both together). The eroticism of the situation seemed entirely lost on Leonardo—he was approaching his art as a scientist, as an astute observer of the world. There was some quality of beauty, of aesthetics, he’d once explained to Niccolò over a bottle of wine, that was extant in the real world and somehow died when transferred to paper. He was trying to keep it alive, keep it vibrant—carry something of the breathless beauty he saw everywhere to another place in space and time.

Hearing him speak of it had been somehow erotic in and of itself. Niccolò had struggled to follow his reasoning, lost himself a little in the catacombs that were the mind of Leonardo da Vinci. Leonardo was their third tonight, even if he was on the other side of the room, even if their hands and mouths would not touch.

Volpe’s hand slid around the back of his neck, caressed his nape, and Niccolò turned toward him. Gilberto hesitated—they both did—and then tugged him close. They kissed, chaste, cautious, almost like it was the first time—although even their first kiss had been a frenzied thing, wild, beyond control.

Niccolò glanced at Leonardo, who was studying them carefully, his eyes narrowed, intense. He would gaze at them for several long seconds, then look down at his sketchbook and lay down strokes in a blitz, a flurry of charcoal dust.

Gilberto bit at his lower lip, reminding him of where his attention should be. Niccolò murmured an apology and tangled his hands in his lover’s hair, pulling him closer. Gilberto’s mouth opened under his, but Machiavelli found himself struggling a little to reciprocate.

“Nervous?” Volpe asked, a teasing smile playing around his mouth. His hands settled on Niccolò’s waist, squeezed gently, and then slipped beneath his coat.

“A little,” Niccolò admitted. Volpe leaned into him with a purr, trailing kisses along his pulse. “Are you not?”

“You’ve never, I take it, made love while watched?”

“Well, excepting that time with our mutual friend,” Niccolò murmured, and Volpe grinned against his skin. “You have?”

“A few times. Admittedly, not like this.” The thief tossed a grin at their watching artist, who was no longer looking down at the page to sketch; his hand moved with an autonomy that Niccolò found stunning.

“You like it?” Niccolò tipped his head, let Volpe bite into the side of his neck. The thief’s right hand slid beneath his shirt.

“It can be thrilling, under the right circumstances. Granted, I’ve never wanted it for us until now.”

Niccolò frowned, winced when Volpe landed a bite that was sure to bruise. “Oh? Do I not pass muster somehow?”

“Quite the opposite.” Volpe’s laugh was warm against his skin, caressing. His fingertips found the tenderness of a nipple and pinched, and Niccolò squirmed. “I have never wanted another man to see you like this. That is a privilege I’ve earned, and one I am not inclined to share.”

He had shared readily enough with Ezio, but Niccolò let that slide. “Except with Leonardo, it seems.”

“His interest is artistic. Academic.” Volpe drew back, smiled up at the assassin, and Niccolò felt his cheeks flush. “Were it erotic, I would cut him down as I’ve cut down every other man who has made attempts at you.”

Niccolò snorted, running a thumb along the proud line of Volpe’s jaw. “You’ve never killed another man over me.”

“You hope,” Volpe purred. “Perhaps I am building you a monument with the bodies of your slain would-be suitors.”

“Two or three bodies would make for an unimpressive monument.”

“Hah! Two or three bodies. False modesty doesn’t become you.” Volpe’s mouth found his, but the kisses were shallow, teasing. When Volpe drew back, Niccolò unsuccessfully tried to chase his mouth. The thief grinned and caught the younger man’s chin in his hand. “Ah, ah. Slow, _tesoro_. I would have you slowly.”

Machiavelli glared at him. “And if I’m not in the mood for your teasing?”

“Then I suggest you dredge the reservoirs of your patience.” Volpe dodged Niccolò’s clumsy, lunging attempt at a kiss and looked at their guest. “Surely you don’t mind if I want to take my time, Leonardo?”

“As I said, do what is natural,” Leonardo said, his face and voice stoic, betraying not even the barest hint that he was sketching anything more arousing than a houseplant.

“Traitor,” Niccolò shot at him.

Volpe’s firm hand turned his face again, and Niccolò groaned his frustration into a kiss that ended just short of his tongue finally finding his lover’s mouth. The smile on Volpe’s face was infuriating, white and sharp, betraying his delight at Niccolò’s mounting desperation.

“Suddenly not so shy anymore.” The thief’s mouth pressed into the soft skin below Niccolò’s ear, bit in hard enough that he would leave marks, and Niccolò couldn’t quite quash his gasp, try as he might to catch its darting tail with his teeth. Having his head and neck cradled between the thief’s hands would have been a deadly prospect, were he any other man held in that grasp in any other context. It was easy to forget—because Gilberto was so unfailingly sweet to him, so gentle—that la Volpe was a dangerous man indeed.

Volpe’s hand slid between his legs. The fingertips that traced the outline of Niccolò’s cock, swelling in his breeches, were so light in their touch that Niccolò would have thought the sensation imagined, had he not, panting, looked down to watch the thief touch him.

“Perhaps I should show you off,” Volpe said, and his voice dropped to a timbre so rough and low that Niccolò shuddered in his hands. “Show Leonardo what real beauty looks like.”

“I’m sure Leonardo knows what beau—” Niccolò’s voice dried up when Volpe’s hand moved toward his cock, his breath catching in his throat—but the thief only let the touch land further upward, his knuckles tracing the trail of hair beneath Machiavelli’s navel, and the assassin growled. “ _Stronzo._ ”

“Aw, such cruelty from your mouth. Shall I silence it?”

“You can try,” Niccolò dared, but his words stuttered into a near-soundless gasp when la Volpe’s fingertips pinched the head of his cock through his trousers.

“You’re so quick.” Volpe’s words were a purr in his ear. “It excites you, doesn’t it?—the thought of being put on display.”

Niccolò couldn’t respond, couldn’t summon enough breath to form words, and only rolled his hips to press his hardness into la Volpe’s palm, moaning his relief when his lover finally squeezed him, roughly groping the contours of his erection.

“On your feet,” Gilberto said suddenly, and Niccolò scrambled to obey, stood trembling, facing Leonardo. Volpe pressed against his back, hands caressing Niccolò’s throat, his shoulders, sides, came to rest on his hips and pulled his ass into the heavy heat of the thief’s crotch. Gilberto lifted a hand, slipped his fingers into Machiavelli’s panting mouth.

“I told you to be natural, not perform,” Leonardo spoke up, his voice laced with irritation. He really, truly, did not seem aroused, too absorbed by his work. With his sketchbook angled open on his thigh, Niccolò could see his own visage taking shape on the page, and he sucked on Volpe’s fingers to keep himself from whimpering.

“And if the performance comes naturally?” Volpe countered. “I am kind enough to share my lover with you, Leonardo. Pray don’t be so critical of my generosity.”

His hand cupped Machiavelli’s jaw and forced it up; he cradled Niccolò’s head back against his shoulder, then plunged his free hand into his lover’s trousers. Niccolò gasped, hips bucking, moaning his delight at the sensation of the thief’s strong hand on his swollen need. He tried to look down, to admire the sight of Volpe touching him finally, but Gilberto’s hand tightened around his jaw when he tried, forced him to take what he was given. Leonardo watched them with narrowed eyes, but at length he turned back to his book and began to draw again.

“Your instruction would be welcome, _maestro_ ,” Volpe crooned. He traced a fingertip around the flared corona of the cockhead at his mercy, and Niccolò’s eyes rolled back. “Help us execute your vision.”

“I have no vision, I told you. The point is to witness a thing in its natural state, uninhibited, and transcribe it on the page. My giving you direction would ruin that.”

“Surely we cannot be entirely ‘natural’ if we are watched, if such a state is novel to us,” Volpe replied. “It’s like that— _tesoro_ , what’s that saying about the tree?”

The query tugged Niccolò out of the fog he’d been happily immersing himself in, but he couldn’t marshal a response until Volpe bit at his ear. “If— _ah_ —if a tree falls in a forest—and n-no one is around to—to hear it—”

“Yes, that’s it—does it make a sound?” Volpe hummed against the soft space beneath Niccolò’s ear. “There’s another one, isn’t there? Something about a bear shitting in the woods?”

“For God’s sake, Gilberto,” Machiavelli said weakly, and the thief laughed, finally gave his lover the tightness of a fist around his aching cock, and Niccolò melted against him with renewed moans.

Leonardo scrutinized the master thief with narrowed eyes, his lips pursed. “So you’re saying that I could _eventually_ come to render you in a more organic state, but my presence would have to come to be organic to the state itself.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Volpe said, and Niccolò snorted, quite sure that the thief hadn’t even remotely understood what the artist was saying. Volpe gave his cock a hard pinch in chastisement.

Their friend considered for another long minute, during which Volpe only continued to tease, denying Niccolò a touch that would satisfy, only twisting him higher and tighter. He was moaning around the fingers Gilberto had slid back into his mouth when Leonardo finally said, “Very well, then. Undress him.”

“ _Maestro_ ,” Volpe purred, inclining his head, and then his wet fingers were untying the laces of Niccolò’s shirt, baring his chest, circling and pinching a nipple until Niccolò snarled and struggled against the touch.

Slowly, as if mesmerized, Leonardo turned to a new page of his sketchbook and began to draw anew. He didn’t so much as glance down at the sweeping motions of his charcoal, and the figures he rendered, though accurate, came out distorted somehow, strange—beautiful, but broken. Niccolò watched them materialize as Gilberto drew his shirt open to his navel and slid the linen down his shoulders; the thief’s mouth was hot on his skin, kissing and biting with abandon as he bared his lover’s torso, pushed it down around his arms and let it bunch at his waist.

“Your scars,” Leonardo murmured. His expression softened. “How many?”

Niccolò glanced down at himself, tilted his head to let Volpe sink teeth into the side of his neck. “Mm—eight, or nine.”

“Eight or nine dead men behind them, I take it.” He looked at Volpe and smiled. “Do they join their fallen brethren on the monument of would-be suitors?”

“They don’t enjoy nearly so ostentatious a fate,” Volpe said, voice low, dark. Niccolò shuddered in his hands. “No, would-be killers feed the fishes.” He nipped at Niccolò’s jaw. “Tell him what I did to that Venetian who overestimated his skills with the garrote.”

“Would rather ruin the mood, _caro_ ,” Niccolò murmured. Volpe’s hands settled on his belt, began to undo it.

Leonardo’s eyes continued to flick over his scars, learning their shape, transmitting them from mind to hand to page. Niccolò shivered to see the evidence to his lifetime of suffering, of sacrifice, immortalized in the artist’s hand. “Does Ezio have so many?”

“More,” Niccolò said softly, and Leonardo’s hand paused for just a breath before resuming again. “I only meet our enemies’ blades when cornered. Ezio seeks them out.”

Volpe’s hands gripped his trousers and tugged them down, just enough to threaten to release his cock, and then they stopped. He pressed a kiss to the back of Niccolò’s shoulder. “Turn around, _tesoro_. On the bed.”

Niccolò obeyed. He laid out on the mattress on his front, grunted when Volpe gripped him by the hips and tugged him toward the edge, left him bent over it and forced him to use his feet to find purchase on the floor. A hand passed over his ass, caressing, before teasing along the waistband of his trousers.

“Ready to see my most prized treasure in all of creation?” Volpe said, the question directed at Leonardo, and Niccolò released an exasperated groan into the mattress. Volpe swatted his ass. “Hush, you.”

Volpe tugged down his breeches slowly, reverently, as if he were revealing the relics of a saint to an adoring congregation. Niccolò’s chagrin at his showmanship only lasted up until the point where his ass met cool air, and then Volpe’s hands were on him, spreading him, holding him open. Niccolò shuddered, squeezed his eyes shut, felt his cheeks and ears burning.

“Rock your hips,” Volpe murmured, and Niccolò did, sighed in near-delirious relief when his cock rubbed against the soft coverlet, leaving thin streaks of white in its wake. He heard Leonardo’s sharp intake of breath somewhere behind him and wished he could see the artist’s face, wondered if his composure was finally slipping. “Tell me this isn’t the prettiest little cunt you’ve ever seen.”

“I can tell you nothing of the sort,” Leonardo replied, and Niccolò moaned then, loud and helpless, rolling his hips until Volpe’s nails dug into his skin and forced him to stop. “But it needs preparing.”

“So it does.” Volpe moved, his weight shifting from the bed, and Machiavelli realized what was coming next a split second before Volpe’s knees hit the floor behind him and a tongue was at his entrance, so slick and hot with promise that Niccolò cried out into the coverlet, arched his lower back into the intimate caress.

Leonardo’s chair scraped; Niccolò turned his head and found the artist sitting beside their bed, facing them from the side. _Still_ , perplexingly, impossibly, Leonardo did not look like a man aroused—not unduly so, anyway. Perhaps a touch more pink in his cheeks, a little dilation to his pupils, but he was still intent on his drawing.

Niccolò could not think on that for long—Volpe’s tongue and lips and teeth were slicking him, fucking him, as intoxicating as they’d ever been. His hands held Niccolò’s ass open, drifting every so often to caress his thighs or score angry red lines into his lower back. It would have been humiliating, rendered so open and helpless before watching eyes, were their observer anyone but Leonardo.

“Did you take my advice?” Leonardo asked suddenly, as if he’d been reading Niccolò’s thoughts. He’d switched to a pen and started a new sketch, and he drew while he spoke. “About inviting a third.”

“We’ve taken all of your advice, _amico_ ,” Volpe replied, his voice a little muffled, and Niccolò bit down a laugh.

He pillowed his head on his folded arms, tilting his chin to look at Leonardo. “How do you know so much?”

“Experience,” was Leonardo’s answer, with a wry and twisting smile.

“You know more than Volpe.” Niccolò winced when his lover swatted a hand against his ass. “What? It’s true. That thing with the chair—had that ever even occurred to you?”

“Bedroom adventures come easier when those involved have been together a long time,” Leonardo interjected, his voice soft, and Niccolò felt the near-irresistible urge to reach for him, to take his hand. “Perhaps if la Volpe had spent less of his youth jumping from bed to bed, he’d have made more time to learn.”

Volpe lifted his head long enough to thumb his nose at the artist before burying his mouth again, and Niccolò rocked back against him with a shallow moan he muffled too late into his forearm.

“Out of curiosity, who did you invite?”

Machiavelli froze, catching his breath, and looked over his shoulder at his lover, who blinked back at him comically over the curve of his ass. Volpe shrugged. “We’ll, ah,” Niccolò began, hesitated. “Tell you later.”

Leonardo chuckled. “Very well.” He flipped to a new page in his book and looked at Volpe. “Is he ready?”

“I’ll check.” Volpe slid a finger into him, joined it with a second when he found the access easy, and Niccolò shuddered against the mattress. “What do you think, _tesoro_?”

“Yes,” Niccolò mumbled, voice muffled against the coverlet.

A third finger pressed into him, stretching him wide, and he yelped, hips bucking. “What was that?”

“I said _yes!_ ”

“Good boy,” Volpe crooned, and silenced Niccolò’s responding snarl with a sharp slap against his ass as he got to his feet. “ _Maestro?_ Is there a particular position you’d like to study?”

“Oh, for God’s sake—”

“I wonder,” Leonardo said, his tone light now, teasing, “if he’s as good with his mouth as I think he is.”

Volpe’s grin turned knife-sharp. “He’s better.”

“ _Porca miseria_ ,” Niccolò snarled, “just lay down, Gilberto.”

La Volpe raised his hands as if in surrender and shed his cape before climbing onto the bed, making himself comfortable on his back. He laughed when Niccolò leapt on top of him, his chuckles muffled by the crush of Machiavelli’s mouth against his. They kissed hard, heavy, Niccolò’s hands making short work of Volpe’s belt and doublet, pulling them free, and then his touch was hungry and searching on his partner’s skin.

“Easy,” Volpe breathed, pulling back from a kiss and leaning up to brush his mouth along Niccolò’s brow. “Easy, _tesoro_ , slow down. Love with me.”

Machiavelli growled, forcing Volpe’s chin up with a hand around his jaw and pressing his teeth against the thief’s hurried pulse. “You can’t say that after teasing me for so long.”

Volpe chuckled. “Can I help myself if you look so sweet when I do so?”

“You fucker.” Niccolò bit in and rocked his hips, and Volpe groaned against him, hands gripping his waist. When Niccolò spoke again, it was in a near-whisper against Gilberto’s throat, soft enough that Leonardo wouldn’t hear. “I love you.”

“ _Ma certo_ ,” Volpe breathed, and smiled into the kiss Niccolò pressed to his mouth before the younger man moved down the bed.

Machiavelli was the sort who immediately lost patience with any art or skill he didn’t show immediate talent for, so learning to pleasure a man with his mouth had been a long, arduous process. He’d been so bad at first that more than once Volpe had actually gone soft in his mouth, but the thief had never been cruel or critical, had only ever laughed gently and pressed kisses into his discouraged lover’s hair—and then given him more lessons.

Those days were years behind them, though, and now Volpe melted under his hands with a moan so low and wrenching that Niccolò heard the scratching of Leonardo’s pen stop for a long, breathless moment before resuming, much slower than before. Volpe began to speak, mumbling praise beneath his breath, an unending stream of adoration as his hand stroked through Niccolò’s hair and his hips rocked, shifted.

“ _Oh_ — _tesoro_ —just like that, love, there—fuck, your mouth—my sweet boy—mm, good for me—”

Niccolò pressed his eyes closed, shuddered. He could count the beats of the thief’s heart in his cock, pulsing heavy and warm in his mouth. He curled his fingers against Gilberto’s thighs, felt them spread open, eager beneath his hands. It felt good to render the most deadly, effective thief in Florence so powerless beneath him—to hear Gilberto breathless with adulation, whispering things so sweet and so profane that it made Niccolò’s heart quicken to hear them, made arousal curl low and tight and hot in the pit of his stomach.

Niccolò bobbed his head and Volpe’s back tightened like a drawn bowstring, the crooning things tumbling from his mouth melting between swears. His fingers in Machiavelli’s hair pulled, mussing the dark locks against his palm, and the desperate, pleading noises he made were so sweet that Niccolò had to clamp a hand around his own erection to stave off the hungry need nipping at the base of his spine.

Ejaculate suddenly flooded the back of his throat, and Niccolò drew back in surprise, coughing, flinching back when Volpe’s cock pulsed wet heat across his mouth and cheek. Gilberto collapsed back against the mattress with a purr, his fingers loosening in Niccolò’s hair, but the blissful expression on his face faltered when he cracked an eye open and found Niccolò glowering at him.

“Uh. Whoops.”

Niccolò swallowed thickly and didn’t respond, let his eyes do his talking. Volpe winced and made to sit up—but then a hand slipped around Niccolò’s jaw, lifted his face, and he found himself blinking up at Leonardo. The artist stared down at him, his expression inscrutable, searching.

“Look at me,” he said, voice soft, softer than satin, and he crouched down beside the bed and began to sketch. Machiavelli made to wipe a hand across his mouth and Leonardo caught his wrist, forced it away, and Niccolò realized with a swooping heat in his gut what exactly Leonardo meant to capture on the page.

“Pray don’t let that one fall into the wrong hands, Leo,” Volpe chuckled, and yelped when Niccolò pinched the inside of his thigh.

Leonardo paused, his eyes fixed on Niccolò’s. “Is it alright?”

Machiavelli cracked half a grin. “I don’t think I need to tell you what happens to my career if that one gets out.”

“I’ll burn it,” Leonardo promised, and quickened his hand on the page. “But it’s too beautiful not to capture for a moment, _amico_.”

“If you say so. You’re the artist.”

They let him draw in quiet until he nodded, satisfied, and took his seat again. Volpe sat up and took up the edge of the coverlet, cradling Niccolò’s jaw and crooning apologies as he wiped the spend from his face.

“You know what this means, though,” Niccolò said, and Volpe heaved a sigh, nodding.

“So I do.” He pressed a kiss to Niccolò’s cheek, lingered there until Niccolò pushed him away with a hand on his chest and a smile. Volpe shimmied out of his hose and tossed them to Leonardo, who caught them, smiling, and then put them aside. The thief stole a hungry kiss from his lover’s mouth before rolling onto his front, arching his ass up as if in offering.

“Where’s the…” Niccolò looked around, and paused when Leonardo extended a hand, the little bottle of oil sitting innocuous in his palm. Machiavelli smiled and took it. “Thank you.”

“Happy to help.”

Niccolò pulled the cork free with his teeth and upended the bottle over Volpe’s ass, grinning at the thief’s startled little hiss. He dumped the remaining contents into his palm and slicked his length, groaning before dropping his hips to press his aching length into the cleft of his lover’s rear.

“God, it’s—” Volpe inhaled sharply when Niccolò’s fingers slid into him. “What’s in that?”

Niccolò considered the little bottle. “Chili extract.”

“Oh, fuck _me_.”

“Fear not, I shall,” Niccolò said, rubbing a soothing hand over Volpe’s ass. He shot a grin at Leonardo and gave the bottle a shake. “What are we getting ourselves into with this?”

“An exceedingly pleasant evening,” was Leonardo’s diplomatic reply, and Niccolò laughed as he rocked his hips, letting his cock drag lazy and wet along Gilberto’s skin. “Ass up, fox.”

“Bossy,” Volpe muttered, but all the same he shuffled his knees and lifted his ass, Niccolò shifting his weight to accommodate him. “Prepare me a little mo— _oh_ ,” he broke off, voice cresting into a high moan when Niccolò’s length pressed him open. “Oh, _fuck_. Never mind. Oh, harder.”

“Don’t rush me.” Niccolò wrapped his hands around the thief’s slender hips, shuddering out a breath and hitching himself a little deeper. He heard Leonardo’s pen falter but didn’t look away from the impossibly erotic sight of Volpe sinking onto his cock. When he didn’t move again, the thief whined and shifted, looking back at him with plaintive eyes. Niccolò grinned. “You want it? Work for it.”

“ _Cazzo_ ,” Volpe snarled, but he began to rock his hips, easing himself open on Niccolò’s cock until his lover’s hips were flush to his ass. “I like you better when you’re sucking me off.”

Niccolò snorted. “Yes, you liked that plenty. That’s what got you into this mess.” He gave an experimental little thrust of his hips, and Volpe gasped wetly into the pillow, fingers curling against the coverlet. He tossed a glance at Leonardo, was delighted to find that the artist was no longer sketching, was only watching them with his lips parted, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed. He started a little when Niccolò smiled at him. “Are you well, _Maestro?_ ”

“Yes,” Leonardo said, perhaps a touch too quickly, and he looked back down at his sketchbook.

Still smiling, Niccolò let Volpe writhe back against him for a little longer before pressing a palm between the thief’s shoulders. He eased Volpe down against the mattress with soft murmurs before lying flush to Gilberto’s back. He rocked his hips and Volpe moaned for him, fingers scrabbling, and Niccolò caught them between his own, held them tight as he pushed into his lover’s heat.

And heated it was, a biting, stinging sort of heat that made his flesh prickle and his back arch, toes curling. Volpe’s moans were loud and wanton in the pillow, his body shuddering between Niccolò’s arms, and his skin was sweat-slick where Niccolò’s mouth caressed him. It was unlike anything Niccolò had ever felt before, delicious, painful, and he pressed into it with a wet gasp against Gilberto’s shoulder. It reminded him of how he’d felt when they tried the ambergris, too hot to function, so hot he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

Leonardo’s pen scratched, and when Niccolò glanced at him their eyes met. The artist, Niccolò saw with great delight, was finally hard, the outline of his cock pronounced against his tight hose, and he made no attempt to hide himself when he caught Niccolò looking.

“Your self-restraint is truly legendary,” Niccolò said.

“Is that a compliment?”

“Of course.” Niccolò rolled his hips, thrusting slow and easy, and the sound that floated up out of his lover sounded close to a sob. Niccolò lowered his head to croon down at him, ran soothing kisses along Gilberto’s shoulders before looking back up at their friend. “I have to tell you something.”

“Oh?” Leonardo set his sketchbook aside, as if his focus was finally broken, and didn’t _that_ make Machiavelli’s arousal coil higher and tighter, that it was him fucking Gilberto that finally made Leonardo da Vinci forget, even for a moment, about his work.

“The man we took to bed with us.” Gilberto began hissing, and Niccolò freed one of his hands to slide his fingers into the thief’s mouth, wincing when Volpe bit him. “Come on, he deserves to know. I don’t like keeping it from him.”

“Keeping what from me?” Leonardo asked, his voice uneasy now.

Volpe began to push himself up, only to collapse back when Niccolò drummed several hard thrusts into his ass, pinning him again with ease. “It was Ezio,” Machiavelli said, grunting with the effort of keeping his lover down, and Volpe snarled over his shoulder at him. “We took Ezio to bed after he saw us fucking through an open door.” He saw the line of Leonardo’s back straighten, the artist’s face going blank with shock, and Niccolò winced. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“No.” Leonardo sank back against his chair, shaking his head. “No, I…you don’t need to feel sorry. Maybe I should even thank you. I didn’t think Ezio had any interest in…”

“Oh, he was plenty interested,” Gilberto said, voice muffled into the pillow, and Niccolò let his head up, leaning down to kiss his lover’s cheek and jaw while he softened the urgent motions of his hips. “Fuck, there, that’s better.”

Leonardo smiled. “Tell me about it,” he requested, voice soft, almost timid.

Machiavelli stared at him, almost reeling—the great Leonardo da Vinci, lover of a thousand men and inventor of sexual contrivances that Machiavelli could only have dreamed of before…suddenly shy and stricken at the mere thought of his paramour in bed with other men. Niccolò smiled and leaned down around Gilberto, hushing the thief with soft kisses while he gathered the other man in his arms, bracing them together.

“He kisses like a trained courtesan,” Machiavelli mused, and Leonardo snorted through his nose.

“Well, he rather is one.”

Niccolò grinned at him. “Quite.”

“Was he…?” Leonardo hesitated. “Was he gentle?”

“With me? God, no. He took me like an animal in heat.”

“He was sweet until you goaded him,” Volpe pointed out, panting, clutching Niccolò’s arms where they were wrapped around his neck and shoulders. “Oh, _tesoro_ , I’m—”

“Don’t come,” Niccolò ordered, voice hushed and heated, and Gilberto moaned, reached between his legs to squeeze his own cock in a desperate attempt to head off his climax. “He said he wanted me, so Gilberto held me open and let him fuck me with his fingers.”

“Was it his first time?”

“With a man? I think so. He was very cautious, afraid he’d hurt me.” Niccolò chuckled. “He almost made me come on his fingers and didn’t even realize it, the idiot.”

“In his defense, you’re extremely good at hiding it,” Volpe said.

Niccolò shrugged. “Eh, _mi sembra giusto_. He’s still an idiot.”

“He did better than you did your first time,” Volpe said, and then babbled a desperate plea when Niccolò’s hips came to a halt. “Wait, please, Niccolò, don’t stop, have mercy—”

“Can’t keep yourself out of trouble tonight, Gilberto,” Machiavelli murmured, teeth pulling on his lower lip when he gave Volpe his cock again, a slow, rolling thrust that had the thief melting against the mattress with a strangled moan. “Are you going to be good for me now?”

“If you’re lucky.”

Niccolò rolled his eyes and looked over at Leonardo. “The things I put up with.” His friend’s answering smile was a little strained, and Niccolò took pity on him. “You want to know what happened next?”

“Please,” Leonardo said, the word leaving him in a rush. His hands tightened around the edges of his chair. There was a wet patch spreading on his hose, and Machiavelli felt the absurd, nearly overpowering urge to climb off the bed and press his mouth to it.

“Gilberto had me from behind while I sucked Ezio’s cock,” Niccolò said, almost matter-of-fact, and Leonardo’s eyes fluttered closed. His breathing seemed sharp, somehow. “Afterward, I rode him until he threw me on my back and fucked me until I came. It was exceptionally good sex, and he stayed after.” Niccolò paused, weighing his next words carefully. “If you asked him, Leonardo, I think he would say yes, and I think he would be good to you.”

“ _Niccolò_ ,” Gilberto moaned, his voice strangled, and Niccolò pressed into him, slipped a hand beneath their tangled bodies to stroke his lover’s aching length.

“ _Mi dispiace_ , Gilberto, shh, I’m sorry. Come for me.”

Gilberto sobbed, his ass arching and pressing hard into Niccolò’s hips, and Niccolò felt spend coat his fingers. The older man shuddered in his arms, whimpering into the pillows, eyelids fluttering, and for a moment Machiavelli was so overwhelmed by his desperate love for the fool that he had to press his mouth to Volpe’s shoulder to anchor himself against the fierce aching in his chest.

“Good?”

“Good,” Gilberto purred, stretching his arms along the mattress and keening quietly when Machiavelli’s kisses turned to bites against his shoulder. “Mm. More.”

“You’ve gone twice already, you greedy shit,” Niccolò chastised, but there was no heat in it.

Volpe shifted, bracing a hand back against Machiavelli’s shoulder, and the younger man withdrew from his ass with a wince and let him up. Volpe rolled onto his back and opened his thighs for Niccolò to slip between them, kissed the younger man with hands in his hair, tugging the dark strands out of place. A devious hand slipped between the press of their bodies to take hold of Niccolò’s cock, and he made a strangled sound against his lover’s mouth when Gilberto began to pump him gently.

Machiavelli put trembling hands around la Volpe’s face, tipping his chin up for a kiss that turned messy and desperate as he rolled his hips into the tight heat of the thief’s hand. It was a firm thumb rubbing the underside of his cockhead as he retreated from each thrust that was going to make him come, that touch so exquisite in its placement and pressure that he felt it tingling between his legs and all the way up his spine.

“God in heaven,” he gasped, helpless against Gilberto’s hand, against the orgasm curling around the base of his spine and spreading its hot fingers along his thighs. “God, I—” He tried to bury his face in Volpe’s shoulder, but a strong hand caught his jaw, forced his head up.

“Look at me,” Gilberto murmured, voice so soft and so sweet it was as if it was their first time again, tangled together in the dark while Venezia slumbered outside their window. “Look at me. Niccolò.”

So Machiavelli did, helpless to do anything but, his gasps and moans vibrating against the palm Gilberto kept pressed to his throat while his climax finally tore free like an arrow loosed on an unsuspecting animal, while his hips worked and he spilled all over Volpe’s hand and stomach. It felt like it went on forever, a sensuous unwinding of every ounce of tension in his body, and he was near tears with the intensity of it, his cock aching in Volpe’s hand when his lover finally released him and pulled him into a kiss.

“Beautiful,” Volpe breathed, rolled them over to pin Niccolò beneath him, pressing kisses to his sex-swollen mouth, his jaw, throat. Machiavelli closed his eyes and lay breathless beneath him, panting, tangled his fingers into the thief’s hair while Gilberto bit marks into the side of his neck and the highest point of his shoulder.

At length, he opened his eyes and tilted his head against the pillow. At some point, Leonardo had come in his hose; the modest wet patch from earlier was now an impressive stain, and his cheeks were flushed, his shoulders rising and falling quickly. But he was sketching again, almost leisurely, and he smiled when he glanced up and found Machiavelli watching him.

“Beautiful,” he agreed, and turned the sketchbook around so Niccolò could see. It _was_ beautiful, a series of thickly shadowed sketches depicting his body and Gilberto’s entwined on the bed together. Leonardo had drawn them headless, which should have been disconcerting, but that was where the beauty lay, in the fact that he’d figured the language of love as a thing between hands and legs and genitalia, a thing that happened to bodies. Niccolò had no real eye for art, but even he could see that much. He dropped his head back against the pillow and smiled.

“Exquisite. Truly.”

“I’m very glad you think so. It helps to have exquisite subjects.”

“You flatter us.”

“Sometimes it’s warranted.” Leonardo closed the sketchbook and tied its leather cord. “You were able to be natural after all.”

“How would you know?” Volpe asked, his voice muffled against Machiavelli’s shoulder. He had closed his eyes and let his body go lax, apparently ready for a doze. Niccolò gave his ass a pinch and he came up with a yelp.

Leonardo’s grin was wide and brilliant. “I know.” He got to his feet, tugging his tunic down over the tell-tale mark on his hose. “I’ll leave you in peace, then.”

“Wait.” Niccolò pushed himself onto his elbows and beckoned to him. Leonardo approached the bed with brows raised and cautiously seated himself upon it. Machiavelli took the artist’s hand, appraising for a moment the smears of charcoal on its heel. “You’ve done a lot for us these past few months, _amico_.”

“I’m personally of the opinion that exquisite congress is the right of every individual.”

Niccolò laughed. “In that we agree. But it’s done more than that. Hasn’t it?” he added, looking over his shoulder at Volpe, but the thief was snoring lightly into a pillow. Machiavelli rolled his eyes and turned back to their friend. “He agrees.”

“More,” Leonardo echoed, voice cautious, but his eyes betrayed his curiosity, and Machiavelli nodded.

“I love Gilberto,” he said, softly, and Leonardo’s answering smile was gentle, knowing. “I’ve loved him since the moment I met him, and as soon as I was old enough to be called a man, I made sure he knew. And things have always been good between us, really, despite it all.” He glanced back over his shoulder, but as best he could tell, Volpe was really asleep. He didn’t quite know how Gilberto would feel about him discussing their intimate lives, even with a friend as close as Leonardo, even after all that had just transpired. “But it’s been _good_ the last few months. Different. And I don’t just mean in bed, I mean…” He shrugged, pressed a hand against his chest, and Leonardo nodded. “So you see, _amico_ , it pains me that you’ve done so much for the happiness of our hearts while yours continues to suffer.”

Leonardo flinched back as if struck, and Machiavelli held onto his hand. “My heart is fine.”

“It’s not,” Niccolò said, very gently, and he ran a thumb across Leonardo’s knuckles. “You insult me, Leo—you know that seeing the most secret desires of men’s hearts is the foundation of my career.”

“The foundation of your career is being a charming little shit who’s good at lying,” Leonardo grumped, and Niccolò grinned.

“That too. But you take my meaning.”

The artist was silent for a moment, tongue in his cheek, but then he nodded. “Yes. I do. Fine. But you intend more than this heartfelt moment, don’t you?—that smile tells me you’re up to something.”

“Up to something? Me?” Machiavelli said, mock-affronted, but when he brought Leonardo’s knuckles to his mouth, his grin was all teeth, and his eyes sparkled. “Perish the thought."


End file.
